


are we going down (or will we fly?)

by skyekingsleigh



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Internalized Homophobia, Jealousy, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, spy boyfriends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:28:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22114135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyekingsleigh/pseuds/skyekingsleigh
Summary: Sometimes–when Gaby leans her head onto Illya’s shoulders and instead of tensing up the way he usually reacts to physical contact, the Russian merely leans back–sometimes, Napoleon has to look away.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 15
Kudos: 375





	are we going down (or will we fly?)

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first fanfic of the decade. It's just something to get rid of my writer's block. Unbeta'd. This pairing stole my heart and watching this severely underrated movie before 2020 had been the best decision I made in 2019. Title from Tyrone Wells' Sink or Swim–a song I often associate with cherik but I now also associate with napollya for some reason. I think it's because of the never-ending parallels between the two pairings. Anyways. Enjoy!

They were having lunch in Brussels when everything clicks. Gaby had wanted to try the infamous moules-frites, so they go to a nice restaurant in the heart of the city and find a table outside near a river. The air was biting cold, enough for Gaby to reach for Illya’s hand with no mind for subtlety, and Napoleon drops his fork.

He stares at their linked hands for maybe five seconds, enough to garner unwanted attention from his partners, before he gestured to a waiter nearby for a new set of the utensil. There was a pinching in his chest, _it’s been there for a while_ , he acknowledges, although never as pressing and as painful as this one. 

Illya doesn’t do anything to take back his hand, no indication that he’s uncomfortable whatsoever with the physical display, and the pinching becomes more of a heavy pounding. Napoleon forcefully swallows his frites and looks away.

He’s felt this way for a while now, Napoleon thinks once again. He certainly did that day a mission had gone wrong in Madrid just two months ago and Illya became compromised. He remembers the panic that settled in his gut, the desperation that he knew his colleagues found interesting. He remembers the rescue mission, finding the Russian spy bound and battered and bleeding, and remembers seeing red. But there was also this sense of relief, so strong it almost drowned him. And then Napoleon proceeded to ignore his feelings, because that’s what Napoleon does best. He continues to call him Peril, and if the American’s voice becomes too fond or endearing whenever he does, Illya never says anything.

And then there’s this thing between Peril and Gaby. If he even tries to comprehend it or entertain the idea, the pinching would go back tenfold, so he doesn’t, and life goes on.

Sometimes, though, they make it so obvious, and Napoleon’s faced with feelings he thought he buried deep enough to forget about. Mostly they’ve been subtle; a careful touch to the shoulder for reassurance or comfort, a nudge to the arm when hearing an inside joke. Gaby is confusing, too, when she links her arm around his instead of Illya’s, or whenever she invites Napoleon for drinks in her room flirtingly. But nothing ever happens, even with a whole empty bottle of whiskey and not much else shared between them. He thinks it’s just the way the German woman is: flirty smiles and strong personality. It’s a small comfort, sure, but sometimes–when Gaby leans her head onto Illya’s shoulders and instead of tensing up the way he usually reacts to physical contact, the Russian merely leans back–sometimes, Napoleon has to look away.

They walk back to their hotel after lunch. Napoleon barely stumbles through a half-assed excuse before he runs for his room. He doesn’t come out for the rest of the night.

The next day, they’re on their way to a private U.N.C.L.E jet to go back to their headquarters, and Gaby makes Napoleon carry all her luggage and proceeds to shower him with thanks, hugs and compliments. Illya unsurprisingly marches past them. If Napoleon were a better person, he would have turned down Gaby’s attentions, knowing it made Peril uncomfortable. Ultimately and not at all unexpectedly, Napoleon indulged in them even more.

In the plane, Gaby announces that she was too tired to deal with them and kisses Illya’s cheek before going to the opposite end of the aisle to sleep. The Russian smiles to himself. Napoleon grits his teeth and forces himself to continue reading an outdated Belgian newspaper he got at the airport. 

“So,” he says suddenly a few minutes later, disrupting the silence. Illya tenses in his seat and glances up at him curiously but doesn’t say anything. “You and Gaby, huh?”

Napoleon thinks he hates himself, a little, especially when the Russian spy frowns and looks at him like he’s delusional. Finally, Illya opens his mouth to answer him, accent thicker than usual. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t have to hide it from me, Peril.” He insists like the masochist he is, still flicking through the newspaper in his hands as if he could actually understand them. “It’s been a long time coming, eh?”

Napoleon sees Illya’s fingers twitch by his left thigh. He ignores it. Illya exhales shakily. “If you’re jealous, Cowboy, it is for no reason.”

“Wha–jealous?” He splutters, and actually hears Gaby try to hold down a snort from down the aisle. His heart hammers against his chest, palms sweating, because _does he fucking know?_ Does Illya actually know about how he feels all this time? “I don’t–“

“Do not worry,” Illya continues, blue eyes trained on his leather shoes. “Chop shop girl and I are just colleagues, or friends, even.”

Napoleon tries to cut him off. “Uh–“

“You have her all to yourself.”

It takes him a few seconds, and then, “I’m sorry, what?”

“Gaby,” the Russian deadpans. “You like her, yes? You’re jealous because you think I like her too. I don’t.”

Napoleon leans back into his seat in shock. What the actual fuck? All this time, he’s been torturing himself, preparing himself for the seemingly inevitability of Peril and Gaby getting together. He’s been ignoring how much the thought of the two bothered him, pained him, and it turns out...”I’m so confused right now.”

Illya barely gives him a questioning look before looking down again. 

“Let’s get one thing clear, Peril,” he announces. “I do _not_ like Gaby. She’s a cool partner and a friend. But not–I mean, not like that.”

This time there is a frown on the Russian’s face. “I do not get it.”

“You think I like Gaby,” he waits for Illya to nod before continuing. “Well, I don’t. And I’m guessing you don’t, either?”

Illya nods.

“Huh,” he says, pursing his lips. It seems all of his pain had been for nothing. “Interesting,” Napoleon opts to say instead.

Peril frowns at him again, before turning to look out the window, ending the conversation. 

He thinks about it all the way to London. And then, when they arrive at the HQ, he thinks about it still as they give their mandatory reports to Waverly. This time Gaby’s interactions with Illya are clearer, and the way Illya softly smiles down at her becomes friendlier instead of the romantic ones Napoleon interpreted them as before. They get two days off and naturally Napoleon disappears. He thinks about Illya the whole time.

When they meet up again, it’s in a safe house in Las Vegas. They got briefed on their mission separately, but he knew Illya and Gaby were once again playing the tourist couple, which makes him the single, American seducer. It’s a role that’s been given to him since he could remember, and a role he played well. It didn’t bother him before. Now, though…Now, it’s different.

“So I’ll scout him out in the bar,” Napoleon says. “But how will you and Gaby even go inside? It’s…not exactly for girls.”

Gaby narrows her eyes at him. “The way I see it, I think you two should go. I’ll be the lookout at this alley right here in an escape vehicle.” She pats on the map they’ve acquired of the place. 

“One flaw, though,” Napoleon tells them. “How am I supposed to play the part of seducer when I come in there with another man?”

Illya visibly stiffens. “Is not necessary.”

“What do you mean, ‘it’s not necessary’? It absolutely is. I need to get inside our target’s house. Our target is a homosexual. You see where I’m going, Peril?”

Gaby chooses that moment to stand up. “You guys settle this between yourselves. I’m going to work on your trackers.”

“Is not necessary,” Illya growls again. “We follow him to his house. Break in. Mission complete. Sex is not answer to everything. Sodomy is still illegal, Cowboy.”

And fuck if that didn’t hurt. Napoleon never really hid his sexual preference and orientation, but he didn’t exactly shout it from the rooftops either. He enjoys sex, and whether it’s with a woman or a man, it doesn’t really matter. To know that Peril, though, someone he’s grown to _feel_ for quite deeply over the past months, thinks little of men like him–it’s far more painful than whatever twisted form of jealousy Napoleon feels whenever he sees Illya with Gaby.

“I got my orders from Waverly. I know what I have to do.” Napoleon ignores the way Illya almost sneers at his words. 

The Russian spy stands up from the couch. “Of course you do.” 

And then he walks away.

The gay bar they enter was far more crowded than Napoleon was used to, but he’s not entirely unfamiliar with the scene. Neon lights slice through the place and it’s hard to see clearly, but it’s all background noise once they spot their target: Michael Johnson, a retired CIA agent selling significant information and state secrets to other interested countries. Illya winces whenever a laser light darts across him, and Napoleon waits for the sick satisfaction to arise with his partner’s discomfort but it doesn’t come. He’s whipped. 

“I’ve seen him before,” Illya tells him behind his drink. “He had a meeting with my superior. Is in contact with the KGB.”

“Further confirmation that we have the right guy,” Napoleon replies before downing his drink. “I’m going in. Wish me luck.”

He pretends he doesn’t hear Illya scold his name and makes a beeline for Johnson, who only had just settled himself in the bar. 

“Whiskey on the rocks and whatever this gentleman wants, please,” he grins at the bartender, leaning against the bar to face Johnson.

The latter checks him out up and down first before smirking. “Aren’t I a little old for your taste?”

“What can I say?” Napoleon shrugs nonchalantly. “I’ve got daddy issues.”

“I’m going to kill you,” he hears Illya in his earpiece. “We had a plan, Cowboy.”

Johnson chuckles. “Fine by me. I’m Martin.”

 _So we’re using our made up names_ , Napoleon thinks, before offering his hand. “Henry. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Pleasure’s for later, Henry,” Johnson winks, and Napoleon hears Gaby fake gag in his ear. He tries hard not to do the same. 

He grins despite himself, silently hoping Johnson’s not that good of an ex-agent to figure him out. “I can’t wait.”

Illya bursts out the backdoor into the alley they were meeting at, Napoleon hot on his heels. “I told you is not necessary.”

“Can you stop saying that?” Napoleon groans. “I got his keys. That’s all that matters.”

“You did not have to kiss him!” Illya snaps at him.

Napoleon tried hard not to roll his eyes but failed. “He kissed me. It would have been suspicious if I didn’t let him after flirting with him all night.”

The Russian snarls before walking off. 

Somehow his silence made Napoleon even more frustrated and angrier. “If I disgust you so much, why don’t you just fucking say it, Peril?”

“Stop talking,” Illya tells him tersely. 

“In fact,” Napoleon continues. “Why don’t you go ahead and get a new partner, so you don’t have to be around _abnormal_ people like me again? I’ll call Waverly for you right now.”

Illya turns to glare at him. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Say it,” He taunts. “I’m disgusting. I’m a thief. I’m a criminal. Go ahead, report me to the police, since you’re so scandalized by sodomy–hmmph!”

Illya pushes him into the concrete wall and cuts him off with his lips.

Napoleon would be lying if he says he didn’t think of kissing Illya. Hell, the thought of tasting his pink lips, or licking the frown from his face have haunted him in his weakest moments. Sometimes, in the rare occasion where Illya smiles at him or rolls his eyes fondly at something he said, he has to pinch himself to stop himself from doing it. So really, he’d be lying if he also said that the moment Illya pressed his lips against his, he didn’t respond. 

It had been like instinct to devour his lips back, his hands going from his sides to Illya’s neck, pulling him impossibly closer and closer till there’s no space left in between. They don’t stop, even when the cold concrete wall behind Napoleon digs almost painfully at his back through the fabric of his shirt, until their lips are bruised and numb. They don’t stop until they hear an engine roar to life, distracting them enough to pull away. 

Napoleon stares at Illya like he had just grown another head, mouth open, panting, chest rising and falling with harsh breaths. Illya mirrors his own expression, except his tongue darts out to his bottom lip as if to recall Napoleon’s taste, and Napoleon has to physically force himself not to kiss him again.

“Well, it’s about damn time,” Gaby suddenly says from their escape car, making them jump apart. “I’d say don’t stop on my account but we still kind of have a mission to complete, so.”

The panic comes back, especially when he looks at Illya’s eyes and sees blankness. They get inside the car before Napoleon starts. “Gaby–“

“Don’t worry, boys, my lips are sealed.” She winks at them. “Besides, I’m just glad I didn’t spend months flirting with you two and trying to get you both jealous so you’d confess for nothing.”

Both men gaped at her, but Gaby only winked again. 

Napoleon risked a glance at Illya. “Now what?”

“Now we break into Johnson’s house and complete our mission,” The Russian supplies stoically before glancing down at where their hands lay, three inches apart in the leather seat of the car. Illya hesitates for a second before laying his hand on Napoleon’s in a tight grip. “And then we talk.”

Napoleon tries to fight off his grin, he really did, but the warmth of Illya’s hand and Gaby’s teasing smile made it nearly impossible, so instead he just says, “Okay,” and intertwines their fingers together in a more intimate hold. “Okay.”


End file.
